


Quiet Revelations

by CosmicZombie



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Dominic absolutely knows what's going on, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, Laver Cup, M/M, Saschanos, Slow Burn, Smut, Stef and Sascha are considerably slower on the uptake, i am in so deep with this ship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2020-12-14 00:30:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21006713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmicZombie/pseuds/CosmicZombie
Summary: The Laver Cup prompts Stefanos to re-examine the nature of his relationship with Sascha.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So the Laver Cup gave us so much more Saschanos content than I could ever have hoped for, and watching Stef desperately trying to get Sascha's attention all weekend broke my heart and meant that fic just had to be written. Also Tennis Twitter holds a considerable amount of blame for facilitating my love for these two. If anyone wants to flail about them with me over there, this is [me](https://twitter.com/moodyasparagus_)
> 
> There are two parts to this, the second part is mostly written so I'll post it very soon (if it's something you want more of!). Hope you enjoy, and as always, I'd love love love to know what you think, comments truly give me life <3 
> 
> DISCLAIMER: This is all fiction (especially my wild disregard for Laver Cup match chronology). 
> 
> **edit: corrected a few typos I missed (sorry!) and made a couple of minor changes**

Stefanos had been thrilled when he’d been invited to be part of Team Europe for the Laver Cup, but also more nervous than he’d let on to anyone. The truth was, he’d never really felt part of the locker-room camaraderie with the rest of the guys on tour, and there was no one he knew beyond polite smiles and small talk on the practice courts. He’d always felt on the fringe of things.

For a long time, it hadn’t really bothered him. He’d always been someone naturally content in solitude, and a lot of the guys were so different to him that Stefanos had never even considered the possibility of befriending them. He had his parents, he had Nick, and any time he had off court he spent absorbing himself in making his vlogs. Most of the time, he was fine. But then sometimes, he’d catch Sascha Zverev and Dominic Thiem doubled up with laughter together in the player’s restaurant, and would have to try and ignore the sudden heavy ache in his chest as he ate his fruit salad alone.

Generally speaking, tennis was such a solitary sport that the little knot of loneliness had always been easy to ignore – but the Laver Cup was different. Amidst a crowd of teammates, he knew how quickly it would become apparent that he didn’t really have any friends. That in itself, Stefanos could have dealt with. He was used to people thinking that he was quiet and preferred his own company. What he feared was that everyone would suddenly realise that, deep down, he also ached to be a part of all the laughter and the noise almost more than he ached to win.

However, to his immense relief, upon landing in Geneva for the opening night gala, Team Europe immediately included him in everything as though they’d been teammates for years. Dominic and Fabio in particular seemed to sense his underlying uncertainty, and made an extra effort to be friendly and include him in conversations, ruffling his hair playfully whenever they passed. Roger and Rafa were diligent and consistent in their support to everyone. The only person who acted as though Stefanos was invisible was the person he wanted to notice him the most.

Stefanos had found himself unwillingly captivated by Sascha Zverev from the moment they’d first met ten years earlier, on the brink of adolescence and full of fearlessness. They’d both been in the juniors of the French, and their parents had arranged a hitting session the weekend before the tournament started.

When they were introduced, Sascha, long-limbed and platinum-haired with one of his brother’s golden necklaces poking out of his t-shirt, had held out his hand for Stefanos to shake. His eyes were blazing, a silent challenge – but Stefanos had been immediately struck by the surprising gentleness of the other boy’s grasp in comparison to the sharp angles of his face, as though maybe he wasn’t really as sure of himself as he made out. Then they’d played until the light around them faded, fierce and earnest, toe to toe, wrapped up in each other. It was tennis unlike anything Stefanos had known. Afterwards, they’d stood breathlessly at the side, windswept, cheeks glowing, and Sascha had looked at Stefanos like no one else had before. Intent and tumultuous blue: as though in that moment he could see Stefanos better than he could see him better than he could see himself. Then he’d passed Stefanos his water, and all Stefanos had been able to think about as he drank was that his lips were where Sascha’s had been moments before.

Stefanos had never been able to identify exactly what it was about Sascha that had struck a chord with him, caught somewhere between rivalry and admiration. All he knew was that it had stayed with him since that moment ten years ago on a dusty clay court in Paris, the smell of early summer rain soft in the powdered evening air. Although they’d only competed a handful of times, playing Sascha always got under his skin in a way nothing else could, and Stefanos couldn’t still couldn’t work out if he hated him or admired him. He fluctuated turbulently between a desire to be recognised by Sascha and a desire to prove himself to him, but neither seemed quite right. All Stefanos knew was that he wanted, somehow, confirmation that Sascha was equally preoccupied by him; that he played as complex and frustrating a role in Sascha’s life as Sascha did in his.

But instead, Sascha barely looked at him. They were placed side by side during the photos for the gala, Stefanos’s stomach a mess of nerves, hands sweating in the silk-lined pockets of his expensive, specially tailored suit. It had been a few months since he’d last seen Sascha, and even in that small window of time Sascha’s faced seemed more defined and mature, harder to read, his hair newly cut with almost none of its natural stubbornness left visible. Stefanos tried feebly a few times to engage him in conversation, but Sascha only replied perfunctorily and briefly before getting distracted by something Dominic was saying and laughing loudly, face transformed as he leant against Dominic, head thrown back, mouth open showing his sharp, even teeth. 

Stefanos shifted uncomfortably, feeling very aware that he was suddenly the only one in the group not absorbed in conversation. He tried to keep the smile pinned on his face for the sake of the cameras all around them, but his fingernails dug into his palms where they were hidden in his pockets, and he could feel his whole face going red. It was a peculiar sensation, to feel both completely invisible and as though everyone was looking at you.

“Hey, Stefanos,” Dominic had stopped laughing at whatever remark Sascha had made and was smiling politely in Stefanos’s direction. “How’re you feeling for your first Laver Cup?”

Reluctantly, Sascha turned to look at Stefanos too, all lean limbs and sharp angles in his immaculately tailored suit. Only the stubbornly fluffy hair and tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses softened the icy impression, giving Stefanos the tiniest glimmer of the lanky, eager twelve year old he’d met all those years ago in Paris. His gaze flickered briefly over Stefanos, but without acknowledgement. Unbidden, Stefanos found himself wishing Sascha would look at him with the same warmth and open ease he’d directed at Dominic – but instead, his face closed down as he looked at Stefanos, turbulent blue eyes guarded and inscrutable behind his glasses.

“Um, good, I think,” Stefanos’s answering smile felt awkward and forced, but the relief of being spoken to made it sincere. If any of his uncertainty was visible, Dominic didn’t seem to notice, clapping Stefanos encouragingly on the shoulder.

“I hope you’re not too much of a rival for the golden boy here,” Dominic grinned, reaching up and ruffling Sascha’s hair. “He already knew you had him beaten in the hair department, not sure his ego will be able to take it if you show him up in the tennis department too.”

Stefanos laughed awkwardly, aware of Sascha’s eyes on him, unreadable. He’d wanted their attention since the start of the evening, but now that he had it he suddenly felt nervous. “I don’t intend to be a rival to anyone on the same team as me.”

“Then you’re a better man than Sascha,” Dominic laughed too, grinning teasingly up at Sascha, who rolled his eyes, a hint of begrudged amusement pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“Don’t listen to Dominic, he doesn’t have a clue what he’s talking about,” Sascha told Stefanos, but his grin and the amused shake of his head was directed at Dominic.

“Yeah, it’s not like I’ve known you since we were both half your height, is it?” Dominic quipped, promptly ducking expertly as Sascha reached out to ruffle his hair. Stefanos smiled awkwardly, watching them. Their interaction was so natural and easy, unlike the stilted guardedness of the way Sascha looked at him, worlds away from the way he’d looked at Stefanos that first time they’d played together in soft, rainy Paris. It was as though they’d forgotten Stefanos was even there, and he felt as though he were intruding on a private moment. He turned away, smiling as convincingly as he could at the sudden, renewed flash of cameras and trying to ignore the deep, empty ache in his chest.

Despite the friendliness of the team throughout the rest of the evening, it didn’t fully subside. Stefanos hovered uncertainly on the fringes of conversation during the drinks reception, pretending to sip at his glass of champagne so it wouldn’t look as though he were the only one not drinking. Sascha and Dominic made it all look so easy, laughing carelessly together, teasing Fabio, whispering with Rafa about Roger. Whenever Stefanos tried to speak to anyone, he felt like an imposter, clumsy and awkward and as though he had no right to be there.

Maybe he would have felt differently if Sascha had treated him like everyone else, who, even if Stefanos felt out of place, showed no signs of thinking the same thing. But the guarded way Sascha looked at him made Stefanos feel all too aware of the distance between himself and his teammates, the realisation he might never really fit in with them. He’d caught Sascha looking at him a few times from across the room, jaw set, a slight frown creasing his forehead – but whenever Stefanos met his gaze, he immediately looked away, refusing to engage. His indifference made frustration prickle at Stefanos’s skin and he had to force himself to look away too, jaw clenched in annoyance.

“Want me to relieve you of that?”

Stefanos jerked out of his thoughts, tearing his gaze away from where Sascha was laughing with Roger at the other side of the bar to see Dominic standing in front of him.

“What?” Stefanos blinked, feeling his cheeks flushing red as Dominic’s gaze swivelled to follow the line of where his gaze had been directed moments before. 

“That glass of champagne,” Dominic clarified with a kind smile. His eyes were blue like Sascha’s, but they met Stefanos’s easily and without hesitation. They didn’t make Stefanos feel like a stranger. “You’ve been pretending to drink it for at least forty minutes now. If you give it to me then you can get something you actually want.”

Stefanos blushed and ducked his head, laughing awkwardly. “Was it that obvious?”

“Only because I used to do exactly the same thing,” Dominic confessed, grinning guiltily. “I used to hate the stuff, and I went through a phase where my coach wouldn’t let me drink at all. It made stuff like this considerably more difficult to get through.”

Unable not to smile, Stefanos handed the drink over gratefully. “Thanks.”

“So, not long until the welcome ceremony. Who’ve you been given to introduce?” Dominic asked conversationally, taking a sip of Stefanos’s rejected champagne.

“Alexander Zverev,” Stefanos replied uncomfortably, glancing hesitantly in Sascha’s direction. He felt his stomach lurch and his cheeks flush with heat as he realised Sascha was already looking at him. Sascha seemed equally unsettled by the meeting of their gazes and turned away, jaw set. “I’m going to be honest, I don’t really know what to say. It’s not like we’re friends, you know?”

Dominic surveyed him with interest. “Says who?”

“Everyone,” Stefanos snorted, incredulously. “He doesn’t exactly act like he likes me, you have to admit.” Dominic said nothing to this, so Stefanos ploughed on nervously, “I guess maybe that’s just what you get when you’ve played matches like some of ours, I don’t know.”

“Yeah, I’ve caught a couple of your matches together,” Dominic agreed. “Heated,” he remarked, taking another sip of champagne. “Not that many people can get Sascha to break that number of rackets in one match.”

Stefanos smiled weakly, unsure what to make of Dominic’s reaction.

“Listen, don’t worry about the introduction,” Dominic said reassuringly, patting Stefanos on the arm. “Sascha only destroys rackets when he’s on court. The rest of the time, he’s pretty chilled out. And look on the bright side, you could have been selected to introduce Roger. Sascha is way less pressure. You’ll be fine, Stefanos.”

Stefanos smiled politely, wishing that Dominic’s words were true. In the end, he did somehow manage to stumble his way through a stuttering introduction to Sascha, hands sweating around his grip on the microphone as he recounted snapshots of the summer they met.

By the time he wound it up, he could feel his cheeks burning with heat and forced an awkward grin as Sascha made his way towards him across the stage. He had expected the same lack of engagement from Sascha as before, cold but civil indifference – but to his surprise, he saw that Sascha was grinning too, disarmed and open just the way Stefanos remembered from that car ride back in Paris with the windows down, radio going full blast. He reached out and gripped Stefanos’s hand with his, and as their eyes locked, Stefanos felt his stomach somersault. Just like the first time, it was gentler than he expected – only this time Sascha’s hand was bigger and they were surrounded by people and applause that rang in their ears, not on a quiet practice court at dusk. Biting his lip, Stefanos tried to ignore the way the heat of Sascha’s touch made his heart beat faster and his cheeks burn hotter. He ducked his head, smiling, warmth flooding his chest.

“Uh, thanks, Stefanos,” Sascha said into the microphone, amusement colouring his tone. There was something about hearing his name in Sascha’s mouth Stefanos liked. Affirmation of a link between them. “I do feel very handsome tonight,” Sascha added, throwing one more slightly awkward but crookedly sincere grin at Stefanos before turning back to the audience.

That grin stayed with Stefanos for the rest of the evening, plaguing his thoughts as he tossed and turned in the darkness later that night, unable to sleep. He wondered if Sascha could remember grinning at him like that the first day they’d met; if he remembered how it had been pouring all day before their practice so that the air was damp, smelling of wet pollen and clay, making their hair curl; if he remembered the way their elbows had bumped companionably as they drank water at half time; if he remembered driving back with the windows rolled down, the watercolour evening air blowing in, radio full blast and the sense of freedom and anticipation overwhelming.

-

Stefanos quickly learnt that Sascha’s warmth was about as unpredictable and infrequent as the sun’s. With a few fleeting moments of contradiction, Sascha’s apparent disinterest in him continued over the first few days of practice. Stefanos tried increasingly to get his attention and to include himself in the conversations that Sascha was in, but whenever he did Sascha barely spoke to him, just nodding dismissively or letting someone else chime in instead. It was usually Dominic, who seemed determined to overcompensate by Sascha’s lack of friendliness by taking Stefanos under his wing, and even though preoccupied with Sascha’s apparent disinterest, Stefanos was deeply grateful for his easy friendship.

There was nothing easy about Sascha, or about the way he made Stefanos feel. When they’d shaken hands on a rain-soaked practice court ten years ago, Stefanos had never experienced such a complexity of emotions towards another person before – and time hadn’t simplified it. Stefanos found himself intensely irritated by Sascha’s lack of engagement, and even more irritated with himself for still craving it. He couldn’t understand why it wasn’t enough that everyone else on the team seemed eager to include him in things; why his gaze kept drifting to wherever Sascha was. Whenever he saw that Sascha wasn’t looking at him, Stefanos felt achingly invisible. Whenever he glanced up and found Sascha’s gaze already on him, heavy, pensive, indeterminable in colour and feeling, Stefanos suddenly felt all too visible. He couldn’t decide which was worse. All he knew was that Sascha’s presence in his life had become as consuming as it had always had the potential to be.

Even when Stefanos won his first match against Fritz, there was a hole in the happiness he felt as Team Europe enveloped him in hugs and high fives when he realised Sascha was the only one not there. He returned the hugs and the ecstatic laughter, but in the end it was a relief when he made his way off court and could let the smile slide off his face.

“Hey,” Stefanos, lost in thought, looked up in surprise to see Sascha walking down the corridor towards him in his warm-up gear, bag slug casually over one shoulder. He nodded politely at Stefanos, looking too preoccupied to smile. “Good win.” It was the first time he’d looked at Stefanos openly since the night of the gala, and Stefanos was struck by the unexpected intensity in his gaze. 

Stefanos blinked. “You were watching?”

Sascha nodded hesitatingly, expression unreadable. “From the training room, yeah. Wasn’t sure you were going to make it after that first set.” Stefanos couldn’t tell if it was a compliment or not.

“Me neither,” Stefanos confessed, and then somehow they were both smiling hesitantly at each other. After a moment, Sascha ducked his head slightly, and moved to make his way down the corridor. He’d got halfway down it towards the court when Stefanos blurted out, “Alexander?”

Sascha turned, caught off guard. “Yeah?” Just the two of them in the corridor, he suddenly looked as unsure of himself as Stefanos felt, a world away from that fearless kid Stefanos had shaken hands with over a decade ago. His hair was poking in fluffy curls around his Adidas headband, there was a slight frown marking his forehead, and hints of dark circles under his turbulent blue gaze as though he’d been tossing and turning late into the nights just like Stefanos. Fleetingly, Stefanos wondered what thoughts spiralled round and round Sascha’s head, if any of them were the same as the ones which spiralled round his, dizzying and always too fast for him to catch.

“Good luck,” Stefanos offered, smiling awkwardly. He pushed a strand of hair out of his eyes and ducked his head slightly. He didn’t know why his heart was racing suddenly, why his cheeks warmed under the weight of Sascha’s gaze. In the fluorescent lights of the corridor, his eyes looked more green than blue, glittering imperceptibly.

Sascha didn’t quite smile, but his gaze softened a little. “Thanks, Stefanos,” he said, as though, somehow, it mattered as much for him to have heard it as it did for Stefanos to have said it.

Stefanos was almost at the end of the corridor again when Sascha’s voice halted him in his tracks.

“Stefanos?”

“Yes?” Stefanos turned, his heart suddenly thudding in his chest.

“You don’t need to call me Alexander.”

Even from the opposite end of the corridor, Stefanos caught the hint of a smile. It was the kind of smile Sascha gave Dominic, the kind he’d flashed Stefanos across the net that first time they’d played, wide and uninhibited, utterly obliterating. 

-

Stefanos had always prided himself on dealing with losses fairly well, but his doubles loss with Rafa the following day hit him hard. Even after showering and changing, he couldn’t bring himself to leave the locker-room and face the rest of the team. He’d so wanted to prove himself to all of them, to Sascha, to show that he deserved the place he had on the team – but his game had fallen flat and the exhaustion of days of sleepless nights had caught up with him. The fact that no one had really spoken to him after the match besides the initial consolatory remarks made him feel worse. He knew if it had been anyone else, he’d have been surrounded by constant support, but no one had tried to talk to him once he’d left the court. Not even Dominic had come to check if he was okay.

Letting out a heavy sigh, Stefanos tried to steer his thoughts away from self-pity, raking a hand through his freshly washed hair and jogging his leg up and down restlessly. Normally he was good at picking himself back up when he needed to, but he just felt heavy, drained from days of constantly pretending he was part of things when he felt so separate.

“Hey.”

Stefanos looked up in surprise to see Sascha standing by the door, arms folded, a slight frown creasing his forehead as he looked at Stefanos.

“Hi,” Stefanos mumbled, pushing his hair out of his eyes and trying to look less deflated.

“You’re not out watching Roger?” Sascha raised his eyebrows, not moving from his spot by the door.

“Sorry, I will,” Stefanos apologised, twisting his hair bobble between his fingers so he didn’t have to look at the distance between them. “I’ll be out in a few moments.”

The pause was long enough that Stefanos thought Sascha had left, but then Sascha said, softer, “it was a close match,” and instead of coldness or indifference, there was something a lot like kindness in his tone. Ridiculously, Stef felt a lump rising in his throat and he clenched his jaw furiously, not trusting himself to look up. The squeak of trainers told him that Sascha was crossing the room, and this was confirmed by the creak of the bench beside him and the sudden heady smell of lemongrass shampoo and warm skin. “You did a good job, Stefanos.”

“Not good enough,” Stefanos gritted out, his vision so blurry that his feet and Sascha’s were morphing into one. Dimly, he registered that they were wearing the same Adidas trainers. He swallowed fiercely against the dam that was suddenly threatening to burst after days of trying to keep up the pretence that he was having a good time when he really just wanted someone to laugh with him the way Sascha laughed with Dominic. He’d been aching for Sascha’s attention all week, but now that he had it, it felt like too much. Stefanos suddenly wanted him to leave – but Sascha, impervious as always to what Stefanos wanted, remained seated on the bench beside him. He was so close that Stefanos could feel the brush of his shoulder, smell the heat of his skin. It reminded Stefanos of late June nights, on the brink of summer and adolescence.

“You know,” Sascha was saying slowly, sounding uncharacteristically hesitant, “Roger told me something after Wimbledon this year. I wasn’t dealing with the loss too well, and he said that playing your best in the moment should always be good enough, because it’s all anyone can do.” He paused, shifting on the bench. Stefanos’s eyes were still trained down, not trusting himself to look up, but he could see the way Sascha was jiggling his leg up and down slightly as though he was nervous. “From watching that match, it really felt like you put everything you could into it. Sometimes it’s just not your day and there’s nothing you can do about it. It doesn’t mean it’s not good enough or that you haven’t done your best.”

“Do you manage to think those things after you lose?” Stefanos sniffed, tucking his hair behind his ear and trying to subtly brush away the wetness on his cheeks at the same time.

“No, of course not,” Sascha snorted. “But,” he sobered, quieter. “Sometimes it helps to hear it.”

The lump in Stefanos’s throat ached. “Thanks,” he mumbled, inaudibly. “I’m not usually this bad after a match, I swear. It’s just – it’s just hard when you let everyone else down as well as yourself.”

“You haven’t let anyone down,” Sascha said, almost gently.

Overwhelmed by Sascha’s unexpected kindness, Stefanos felt his face contort, and pressed a fist angrily to his eyes, trying to stem the wetness that was suddenly spilling down his cheeks. All he’d wanted since the start of the weekend was for Sascha to speak to him, to look at him the way he had when they were both precocious and barely teenagers, fighting each other on a dusty clay court in Paris. Now that he was it was somehow too much, too intense. Stefanos sniffed furiously, wiping a hand across his eyes and trying to regain control over his emotions.

“Hey,” Sascha bumped his shoulder awkwardly against Stefanos’s, concern colouring his tone slightly. “Stef. You’re alright.”

“I know, I know,” Stefanos blurted out, sniffing again and pushing his hair out of his eyes. Sascha’s shoulder was a warm pressure against his, grounding and dizzying all at once. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Sascha moved away, standing up and clapping him on the shoulder. He smiled wryly. “You’ve seen me when I lose.”

-

Stefanos didn’t see much of Sascha again until the following morning, when, to Stefanos’s immense surprise, he came over and sat down beside him on the team bench, brushing his honeyed golden hair impatiently out of his eyes and squinting up at the scoreboard. “I left my glasses in the locker room, what have I missed?” he asked, leaning over and speaking in low tones to Stefanos. As he did so, his bare knee brushed up against Stefanos’s, warm and smooth, sending shocks up Stefanos’s spine and making heat curl sudden and unexpected in the pit of his stomach.

“Uh – only the first game,” Stefanos stuttered, trying to ignore the way his cheeks were burning. Sascha was so close he could smell the mint tea on his breath he’d seen Sascha drinking at breakfast. “Dominic got it, 40-15.”

Sascha nodded approvingly, but didn’t move his knee away. It stayed there, pressed against Stefanos’s for the rest of the set, so distracting that Stefanos didn’t even register Dominic had won until Team Europe erupted around them.

-

The celebrations of Team Europe proved short lived; after his loss against Isner later that day, Sascha seemed to melt into thin air. Stefanos had glimpsed him briefly heading for the locker-room after the match, head bowed and jaw set, but hadn’t seen him emerge. It was now well into the evening, the rest of Team Europe sprawled around in a post-dinner slump.

“Where’s Sascha?” Stefanos gave up on trying to peel a tangerine, leaning over to ask Dominic who was curled up on the other end of the sofa, engrossed in his phone.

“Wherever Sascha goes after a loss,” Dominic replied distractedly, not taking his eyes off his phone. “He likes his space.”

“But won’t he be hungry? It’s late,” Stefanos frowned worriedly, glancing at Sascha’s untouched plate at the table and thinking with a pang of the unexpected kindness Sascha had shown him the day before after his loss. He remembered how Sascha had said it helped to hear the things he’d told Stefanos after a loss, and wondered if anyone had been there to say them to him.

Dominic looked up, scrutinising Stefanos for a moment. “Don’t let it bother you, Stef,” he said, patting Stefanos on the arm. “Sascha’s always been about as skilled with emotions as he is at the net, but he works his way through one way or another.”

“He’s been gone for hours, though,” Stefanos protested, picking at the tangerine peel in his lap so he wouldn’t have to meet Dominic’s gaze. “Shouldn’t someone make sure he’s okay?”

Dominic paused, considering Stefanos silently. Then he said, “Top floor of the hotel.”

“What?” Stefanos blinked, his heart lurching. He punctured the tangerine skin with his thumb by accident, hands suddenly trembling.

“That’s where he’ll be,” Dominic clarified, almost gently, and something in his voice reminded Stefanos of his Dad whenever he thought he knew more than Stefanos did about something. However, Stefanos was too preoccupied with the prospect of finding Sascha that he didn’t dwell on it. Getting hastily to his feet and gathering up the scattered bits of tangerine peel to put in the bin, he thanked Dominic and tugged on his hoodie before leaving the room. Outside in the city, the night air was clear and cold, stars faint but very much alive above the fug of pollution, glistening like unshed tears in the darkness. Stefanos was glad of the stairs once he reached the hotel; they gave his heart a reason for the way it was pounding in his chest, his palms sweating and his stomach knotted up as though he were about to walk on court.

When he reached the top floor, he wondered fleetingly if Dominic had been wrong – the open space seemed silent deserted beyond the tiny toy city laid out below. But then Stefanos caught a glimpse of a solitary figure sitting on the floor by the glass, Adidas hoodie pulled over his hands, shoulders hunched. His eyes were dull as he stared out into the night, neither blue nor green but the same inexplicable silvery luminosity as the stars. Sascha. He was simultaneously further away than ever from the fearlessness of the boy Stefanos met all those years ago, yet infinitely closer to that unguardedness than Stefanos had ever known him to be since.

“Can I sit with you?” Stefanos asked, tentatively, and immediately winced at how loud and invasive his voice sounded in the quiet of the deserted hall.

Sascha looked up at him in surprise, but with none of the hostility that Stefanos had expected. Instead, he nodded wordlessly, shuffling over slightly and wrapping his arms more tightly round his knees as he stared out at the flowing city lights that spread like luminous veins across the dark expanse below them. There was a long pause before he spoke, slow and rough into the silence between them, “When I was a kid, after I lost, I used to go up to the top floor of whatever hotel we were staying in and stare at how tiny and faraway the world below could look. It made all my problems feel far away too.”

“Does it still work?”

Sascha smiled wryly, humourless. “Like most things, the magic wears off as you get older.”

“How can you say that?” Stefanos blurted incredulously, staring at Sascha. “This is everything we’ve been working towards since we were kids. We’re living the magic we used to believe in.”

A sad smile pulled at the corners of Sascha’s mouth as he fiddled with the cord of his hoodie. “I guess. Nothing’s ever quite the same as the way you think it’ll be when you’re a kid.”

“Maybe not,” Stefanos admitted. “I was very optimistic as a kid. Maybe too much, sometimes.”

“I remember,” Sascha said, quiet but with the ghost of a smile.

“You remember, when we met as kids?” Stefanos looked at Sascha properly for the first time since he’d sat down beside him, and felt his heart fumble a beat. Sascha had shifted to sit cross-legged, facing Stefanos. His honey-gold hair was fluffy and freshly washed, softening his angular features, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He was gazing straight at Stefanos, regarding him intently in silence even though there was a whole city laid out beneath them to look at.

“Of course,” Sascha replied, slowly and without looking away.

“I didn’t think you did,” Stefanos mumbled, dropping his gaze and fiddling with the spare hair tie in his hands. He could feel his heart racing in his chest, so fast he felt breathless, like he was still climbing the stairs to something indeterminable.

“Why not?” Sascha asked, soft. Stefanos couldn’t bring himself to look up but he could feel Sascha’s gaze still on him, quiet and intent.

“You don’t treat me like the others,” Stefanos half-whispered the words that had been eating away at him ever since he’d landed in Geneva. “You act as though I’m a stranger.”

“You were different, to all the other kids I’d met at juniors,” Sascha mused, slowly. He was looking out at the city now, his profile cast in the softened glow of its lights. “You’re still different. I can’t explain why, but you just are. I don’t treat you like the others because you’re not them. Would you prefer it if I did?”

Stefanos paused, considering. “No. I don’t think so.” His heart felt fuller than he had known it could, beating hotly beneath his t-shirt. He suddenly felt very aware of their proximity, the way Sascha’s arm was centimetres away from his, how Stefanos could feel the heat from it and the way the distinctive, heady fragrance of Sascha’s lemongrass shampoo and the mint tea he always drank filled the small space between them. Stefanos heart was beating harder than it had been even moments before, as though he’d reached the top of the stairs at long last. It was in that moment that it all, suddenly, clunked into place for the first time, and Stefanos realised what had always been behind his preoccupation with Sascha. The realisation was dizzying, terrifying, liberating. A quiet revelation that exploded between them ten years after their first meeting.

“What is it?” Sascha’s voice broke through Stefanos’s epiphany, quiet and laced with hesitation, and Stefanos realised he’d been staring at Sascha the whole time. He wondered if Sascha had been able to see the moment, if the realisation had passed through Stefanos’s gaze like clouds clearing from almost-summer skies. Sascha’s eyes were blazing, unguarded and uncertain behind his glasses. Part of his fringe had dried into a little flick of hair that stood straight up, and there was a graze on his chin from where he’d caught it with his racket earlier. Stefanos looked at it, and kissed him. He kissed Sascha before he knew that was what he was going to do, as though it were the easiest thing in the world, like it had been coming all along.

Sascha’s mouth was hot and pliant and soft, so soft. Stefanos sunk into its warmth, hands coming up to cup Sascha’s face. He could feel the scratch of Sascha’s stubble, taste mint tea on his tongue, and it felt as vital and natural as breathing. Sascha’s hands were fisted in the front of Stefanos’s t-shirt, tugging him in closer, nose pressed against Stefanos’s as they kissed deeply and intensely, as completely absorbed in each other as they had been the first time they’d met. They kissed until it was all mouths and soft fierceness and electricity that sparked all the way to the tips of Stefanos’s fingers; until Stefanos’s breath was coming in stifled gasps against the burning, silken heat of Sascha’s lips and his cock was hard and aching in his pants. They kissed until Stefanos’s head was spinning, until he was utterly lost in Sascha. It felt somehow the same as when they’d first played tennis; before then, Stefanos hadn’t really understood what it meant and he felt that, until this moment, he hadn’t truly known what it meant to kiss someone.

Then, abruptly, there was nothing. Sascha had pulled away, eyes wide, mouth red and swollen from the fervency of the kiss. The sound of their unsteady breathing filled the sudden silence that seemed to ring in Stefanos’s ears. He could see Sascha’s chest was rising and falling as rapidly as his own, see the same panic in Sascha’s eyes that Stefanos felt too now that they were separated. They were closer than they had been before they’d kissed, but the distance between them suddenly felt much further, too far for Stefanos to reach out.

Unsteadily, Sascha stumbled to his feet, straightening his glasses which had fallen askew. He looked at Stefanos for several beats, dark gaze blazing with something undefinable – and then he backed slowly away, leaving Stefanos sitting alone beside the miniature city with a racing heart and an ache in his chest so poignant he felt as though it might split him in two.

In that moment, he felt sure that even if he had been standing down amongst its blinding lights, the city would still have felt miniscule.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so so sorry this second part is later coming than I expected! Life's been hectic lately with horrifying numbers of deadlines, and this just grew from what I initially intended as a cute short little Saschanos fic to 10,000 + words of feels and angst and smut... 
> 
> All the incredibly lovely comments on the last chapter honestly just blew me away. Like wow. Seriously. I really can't tell you how much it means to hear your feedback, it really makes all the time I spend on writing feel worthwhile. Thank you all so so much <3 
> 
> I really hope you enjoy the second part of this... I'm actually super nervous about posting it because I don't normally write smut stuff but this kind of just?? Happened? I blame Saschanos for constantly behaving as though they're in a real life fanfic lol. Anyway, I really hope it's okay, and I'd absolutely love to know what you think of it/ any thoughts you have! 
> 
> Thanks again so much to everyone for reading this and sticking with it, you're all so amazing <3 
> 
> (Also special thanks to Kalin and Liam for all your enthusiasm on this, you're both my faves <3)

Stefanos didn’t sleep. Back in the silent darkness of his hotel room, he leant against the cool glass of the window, eyes searching the glowing city lights below for answers as though he was stargazing. Lost in a kind of quiet wonderment, he traced his lower lip with his thumb, trying to recall the heat of Sascha’s mouth. Even with the taste of Sascha still lingering on his tongue, it felt impossible to comprehend what had just happened; that he had wanted something so deeply for so long and yet somehow never known it before.

As his breath slowly misted up the glass, muting the lights of car headlamps and empty restaurants miles below, Stefanos wondered how he could never have realised it until now. He felt as though he should have known it the moment Sascha had shaken hands with him that first day, the moment when it was too dark to play any longer and Sascha had looked at him across the net, windswept with quietly glowing eyes, as though he already knew Stefanos inside out. All those years between then and now quietly aching for Sascha to look at him that way again, and it was only now that Stefanos finally understood why.

The first, tangible thing Stefanos had felt, in that moment when the realisation had imploded between them, was relief. Then they’d kissed, and that relief had got lost amidst the enormity of what was happening. Heat and intensity and stifled breaths, racing hearts. The moment when Sascha pulled away and just looked at Stefanos, breathing hard, eyes blazing and one hand still fisted in the front of Stefanos’s shirt as though he wasn’t quite ready to let go, had felt eternal. Stefanos’s heart and thoughts had rushed so fast he felt dizzy, incapable of taking in what had just happened between them: that he’d kissed Sascha, and that Sascha, somehow, inexplicably, had kissed him too, as though he’d been holding himself back for years. When they’d separated, it had felt as though they were left standing on the edge of a precipice. The colour had drained from Sascha’s flushed cheeks as fear clouded his gaze, and Stefanos’s head had been spinning so dizzyingly that he’d done nothing as Sascha backed away but watch helplessly.

Alone now in the tranquil darkness of his room, Stefanos’s thoughts were slower, a kind of serenity in their stillness, in the acceptance of their turmoil. He knew there was nothing to do but for him to sit and let their tide wash over him, change him. Tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, he leant wistfully against the glass of the window, staring down at the blur of lights glittering behind the condensation of his breath. The first hints of dawn were beginning to streak the sky, but they were barely noticeable, invisible amidst the constellation of lights below. He was reminded fleetingly of how often he’d sat like this, that first summer ten years ago. When his parents were still fast asleep on the other side of the hotel suite, Stefanos would tiptoe out of his bed to sit and stare out at the lights of Paris, impatient for sunrise. He only realised now that he’d started it the week he’d met Sascha, as though, somehow, he’d known everything was about to change.

Hit with the memory of just how much it had changed, Stefanos felt his stomach somersault as he remembered Sascha’s expression that night as he’d confessed to Stefanos why he was staring down at the city lights, his face older and more cautious than it had once been. The heady smell of lemongrass and the salt of warm skin rushed at Stefanos as powerfully as if he was back in that moment, nothing but their breath separating them in that endless pause that hung between them before the touch of their lips. Then the heat of mouths and unsaid words, and Sascha’s grasp, strong but tentative, at the front of his shirt, the deep curl of anticipation that still made Stefanos ache with longing not quite fulfilled. Torn somewhere between elation and a deep, empty ached that reminded him of homesickness, Stefanos closed his eyes, reliving the feeling of complete freedom they’d lost themselves to, just for a moment. He felt as though he could exist off its wave forever.

The iridescence of the city was fading to pastel daybreak when Stefanos drifted off at long last, the ghost of Sascha’s mouth still haunting him. 

-

Although he’d barely slept, Stefanos was one of the first down for breakfast the next morning. Twisting his hair nervously between his fingers, he helped himself to a bowl of fruit salad just for something to do even though his stomach was too knotted up to want to eat anything. He tried to distract himself from the nerves coiling in his cut by picking at the chunks of mango and strawberry, unable to stop himself from restlessly eyeing the door. Every time someone appeared his heart thudded faster beneath his Laver Cup team sweater – and then sunk when he saw that it wasn’t Sascha. All the serenity he’d felt as though he was floating on last night had disappeared along with the darkness, and he felt more strung out with nerves than he did before a match.

By the time Dominic appeared, Stefanos was so wound up that he barely managed to return Dominic’s cheerful smile as he sat down in the empty seat opposite Stefanos and poured himself a cup of herbal tea.

“Want any?” Dominic asked through a yawn, gesturing obligingly to Stefanos’s empty cup.

Wordlessly, Stefanos shook his head, trying but failing to stop his eyes from drifting compulsively towards the doorway.

“Did you find him, last night?”

Stefanos jerked his attention away from the door, heart suddenly racing under Dominic’s quietly questioning expression. Something passed across Dominic’s face as he took in the turmoil Stefanos knew must have been etched across his own. “Sascha,” Dominic clarified, taking a sip of his tea. His hair was sleep-ruffled and he was in a hoodie that was too big for him, but the blue of his gaze was incisive and alert, missing nothing.

“Uh – yeah,” Stefanos mumbled, spearing a piece of mango and shoving it into his mouth just for something to distract himself, “Thanks.”

“He talked to you?” Dominic was looking more closely at Stefanos, a slight frown creasing his forehead. “After his loss?” He picked up his mug again and blew on the steam rising from his tea without breaking eye contact. Stefanos ducked his head. There was something unnervingly shrewd about Dominic’s gaze, even though there was never a hint of anything other than kindness beneath it. In fact, maybe that was part of what made it so disarming: its compassion so easily broke down all Stefanos’s defences until he had nothing left to hide behind.

Shifting awkwardly in his seat, Stefanos stabbed a piece of pineapple even though his mouth was still full of mango. “Yeah,” he shrugged, trying to look nonchalant even though he could feel his cheeks heating up as a flicker of something he couldn’t place passed across Dominic’s gaze. For a moment, Dominic looked as though he was going to say something – but then he seemed to decide against it, smiling at Stefanos with an uncharacteristically complicated expression before picking up his tea again and turning to speak to Roger. Thoughts still spinning sickeningly at the prospect of seeing Sascha, Stefanos was for once relieved to be able to lapse back into apprehensive silence, letting the conversation of his teammates wash over him.

It was well past nine by the time Sascha finally appeared, his hair tousled and unkempt, dark circles to match Stefanos’s ringing his downcast gaze. Stefanos’s mind had been so achingly full of him all night that he felt his heart stop at the sight of Sascha right there in front of him, poignantly real. He was wearing the same Adidas hoodie he’d had on the night before, the cords at uneven lengths as though he’d been pulling at them. Hands shoved in the pocket, he crossed the room silently and pulled out the chair beside Dominic without so much as glancing up.

Even though the thought of Sascha meeting his gaze made Stefanos feel dizzy with apprehension, he found he couldn’t bring himself to look away. After years of stolen glances, it felt surreal to look at Sascha and to suddenly know how he kissed, how he tasted, how his hands had clung desperately to Stefanos’s shirt as though he was afraid to let go. Stefanos felt his cheeks heating up at the memory, warmth flooding his stomach, but even though his heart was racing so hard it hurt, he still couldn’t bring himself to look away. All the sleepless hours, he’d wondered if he’d somehow made it up, imagined it, because it seemed so impossible – and yet as Sascha sat in front of him in the cool morning light, he knew it was infinitely real.

If Sascha sensed Stefanos’s gaze on him across the table, he didn’t look up. He didn’t look up at or acknowledge anyone, just stared down at the empty plate in front of him. His phone was on the table in front of him, its screen black and empty, starless. Defensively, he huddled into his hoodie, pulling the sleeves down over his hands as though protecting himself from Stefanos’s gaze. Stefanos couldn’t look at it without remembering how it felt against his skin, how it smelled of soft lemongrass and mint like Sascha’s skin – but he also couldn’t reconcile that Sascha with the stony-faced one in front of him now. He seemed as far away as he’d ever done, and Stefanos couldn’t work out whether he ached for Sascha to look up and meet his gaze, or dreaded it.

Over the ruckus of Fabio and Rafa’s conversation between them, Stefanos saw Dominic nudge Sascha, his warm blue eyes clouded with barely hidden concern. “Sasch. You okay?” 

“Yeah, of course,” Sascha shrugged dismissively, taking a swig of juice. His voice was rough with sleep, and he didn’t look up, fiddling restlessly with a sachet of sugar from the table with his long fingers. Fleetingly, Stefanos thought he caught a glimpse of the same consuming uncertainty that was making his heart thud wildly in his chest just from being in the same room as Sascha. Dominic regarded him closely for a moment, then, clearly knowing when to push it and when not to, didn’t press him further, just slid his bowl of uneaten muesli towards Sascha.

“Eat a proper breakfast,” Dominic instructed him, gently, pushing back his chair and clapping Sascha on the shoulder. “I’ve got to go to press, but let’s hit before your match, okay?”

“Okay,” Sascha agreed, offhand, his eyes still downcast. His German accent was thicker in the morning, Stefanos remembered. The morning after they’d practiced together that first time, Stefanos had watched him from across the hotel breakfast room, fascinated to see Sascha, platinum hair ruffled and cheeks still pink with sleep, slowly transform out of his moody silence until he was reluctantly grinning with Mischa, face lit up like the unrisen sun. He remembered willing Sascha to look up at him then, to see him even though he was all the way across the room, just for some acknowledgement that they knew each other, that the night before had been real – but Sascha never had. That had been the last time Stefanos had seen him in Paris, and the next time they’d met was two years later, Sascha almost as unrecognisable as he suddenly was now.

“Stef, talk to him and keep him out of his head,” Dominic’s voice startled Stefanos from his thoughts along with a friendly clap to the shoulder. Stefanos jumped, heart stopping. He fumbled with his fork and dropped it into his bowl of uneaten fruit salad with a clatter. “He always overthinks before a match and it never does him any good.”

Sascha was looking up now, eyes catching on Stefanos’s. His cheeks immediately coloured, and he froze uncertainly, glass raised awkwardly halfway to his mouth. Stefanos felt as though he were falling without the comfort of hitting the ground, his heart suddenly thudding so hard he could feel it in his chest, ringing in his head. He couldn’t tell what the expression was in Sascha’s gaze; it was too much all at once, the colour of the ocean after a storm. Fear, defensiveness, quiet understanding. It made something uneasy unfurl in the pit of Stefanos’s stomach and undefinable emotion well in his chest, threatening to overwhelm. He’d thought that the nervousness was in the anticipation of waiting to meet Sascha’s gaze, but he found he felt even more flustered under its weight.

“Morning,” Stefanos offered, awkwardly, into the vast expanse that seemed to exist between them. For a few moments, he’d been closer to Sascha than he’d ever been – but somehow all it had done was left him feeling further away, his voice uncomfortably loud between them.

“Morning,” Sascha echoed inscrutably, eyes lingering on Stefanos for a moment in a way that made heat rise on Stefanos’s cheeks, suddenly reminded of the way Sascha had looked at him just before they’d kissed. A pink tinge appeared on Sascha’s cheeks as though he was remembering too, and he ducked his head, sticking a spoon decisively into the muesli in front of him and clearing his throat gruffly, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

“How’re you feeling?” Stefanos asked uneasily, fiddling with a stray sultana on the table. He glanced up to catch the flash of fear that passed over Sascha’s face, “About the match, I mean. Obviously,” he stammered, feeling his cheeks burn hotter. “The match. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Wordlessly, Sascha shook his head, mouth full of muesli. His hair was tuftier on one side than the other, as though he’d slept curled up on one side. The way he’d cut it, it was the same length it had been when Stefanos had first met him, only now it was a rich, deep honey colour, more complex, instead of the pure platinum that had shone blindingly in the sun. Stefanos was assaulted by the memory of how it had felt beneath his fingertips, softer and finer than he would have expected, like catching sunshine beneath his fingertips.

Shifting awkwardly in his seat, Stefanos bit his lip, unsure of what else to say. The conversation around them wasn’t quite loud enough to cover up their silence, and the quiet between them was so intense that Stefanos found that he was half relieved and half disappointed when Sascha turned to talk to Fabio, moving his entire chair so that Stefanos was no longer in his line of vision. It was then for the first time that Stefanos wondered, fleetingly, whether Sascha’s insistence of never looking at him might just have come from a similar place to the reason why Stefanos had never been able to stop looking at him.

-

Stefanos made a point of keeping out of Sascha’s way as the match drew closer, not wanting to unsettle the fragile balance he seemed to have established after his hitting session with Dominic. Whatever emotions were bubbling beneath the surface between them, Stefanos knew he couldn’t let them take precedence today. He knew how much Sascha needed this victory. All week, he’d watched the way Sascha’s shoulders hunched over in defeat every time he hit a dud shot in practice or lost a game, the way he seemed to sink further and further into himself and get stuck there. He ached to see Sascha exist with the same fearlessness he had when they’d first met, to stride on court as though he owned it and not as though he was afraid of it, more than he ached to speak to him.

Despite Stefanos’s deliberate attempts to ensure distance between them, as the day went on, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was building inescapably between them. They didn’t once make eye contact – but there still somehow an indefinable _something_ that made Stefanos’s heart beat wildly in his chest whenever they were in any kind of proximity, the air around them throbbing with a gradually building tension that was almost unbearable.

The only time they spoke was minutes before the match, when it was suddenly just the two of them left in the locker room for a moment. Stefanos’s heart leapt to his throat the moment he realised they were alone, heat flooding his cheeks at the memory of the intimacy of the last time they’d been alone, but he forced himself not to dwell on it.

“How’re you feeling?” he asked, because silence was dangerous. He leant against the locker beside him, watching the way Sascha’s shoulders tensed at the sound of his voice.

Turning, Sascha shrugged, offhand. “Fine.”

Stefanos smiled awkwardly. “Good luck.”

Sascha’s gaze flickered to his, lingering for a moment in a glimmer of something real – but then the door opened and Dominic came in, throwing a towel at Sascha’s head and telling Sascha he couldn’t be late to his own match. Sascha let himself be bundled out of the door, but at the last moment, he glanced over his shoulder at Stefanos, not quite a smile, but something quiet, intimate; something shared that made Stefanos’s heart swell in his chest and suddenly find it difficult to breathe.

He thought about it the whole match. Usually, Stefanos was captivated by Sascha’s tennis, but today he felt too wound up and nervous to lose himself in the fire and grace and gritty determination of it. He could barely sit still on the player’s bench, fists clenched in fearful anticipation over every point, tensely eyeing Sascha for signs of exhaustion or frustration. It felt strange to watch him now and know that he kissed like he played, full of passion and with an undertone of uncertainty that was touchingly human; strange to watch the way his tendons stood out in sharp relief as he gripped his racquet fiercely and remember how they’d looked when he’d grabbed the front of Stefanos’s shirt.

Before, Stefanos had never been able to watch Sascha without half-hating him, not realising then that maybe he’d only hated that he was so preoccupied with him. Without the smokescreen of animosity, watching Sascha was an entirely different experience. Stefanos felt every double-fault and unforced error in his gut, every roar Sascha let out in frustration or triumph, his hands clenched so tightly into anxious fists that tiny little crescent moons appeared in the soft skin of his palms.

Sascha didn’t so much as look at Stefanos during the changeover, even though everyone was rallied round him. He was all fire, breathing hard, eyes intent and focused as he stared out at the court, more there than he was on the bench. Stefanos stayed back, not allowing himself to participate even though he longed to catch Sascha’s eye, even for a moment, in the illogical hope that if Sascha could somehow see the hope in Stefanos’s gaze he’d believe it in himself.

The final set was so close that Stefanos spent the last game barely able to watch, eyes screwed shut, willing Sascha on with every fibre of his being.

When Sascha finally won match point, it felt as though the world around them had exploded. Euphoria shone off Sascha’s face like sunlight as he collapsed to the ground, overcome with the same tide of emotions that Stefanos felt reverberate all through the stadium and through his entire being, more powerful than anything he’d ever known. Sascha had fought through all the self-doubt and struggles Stefanos had seen etched across his face not just this weekend but all year and won, kept going even when he looked like he wanted nothing more than to hide, and to see all of that suffering pale in the face of such pure, unadulterated joy made Stefanos’s heart so full he felt as though it would burst. It was only when he felt himself collapse on top of Sascha’s outstretched body that he realised he’d run at Sascha as though he was running for his life.

Beneath him, he could feel Sascha shaking with laughter, elation, adrenaline, his arms tight around Stefanos as the rest of the team piled on top of them. Deafened by the roar of the crowd and their own hearts, with Sascha’s nose pressed against his cheek as he laughed unrestrainedly into Stefanos’s neck in sheer euphoria, Stefanos felt as though he had never truly known happiness before. Then Sascha looked up and met Stefanos’s gaze in overwhelmed, shining blue. Instead of looking indifferent or unsettled, he just grinned, wide and pure and open, and Stefanos was forced to rethink the entire meaning of happiness. All he could do was grin back helplessly, united in sheer elation.

-

It was late, and Stefanos was standing against the wall of the team room, watching Fabio and Rafa jostling each other for the last of the champagne. The euphoria that had enveloped them all as they’d spilled off the court and into their room had been unlike anything Stefanos had experienced, and he’d been happy just to exist in the radiance of the happiness that eclipsed everything. Sascha had been at the centre of the noise and laughter most of the evening, but as the elation of the team had gradually mellowed, he’d quietened, his gaze flickering up to Stefanos’s more often, lingering longer each time with a kind of defiant fearlessness. Happiness made him so beautiful it hurt Stefanos to look at him, his tempestuous blue eyes shining with unrestrained joy, his whole face glowing, dark blonde hair curling softly, damp with champagne.

Each time his eyes locked with Stefanos’s across the room, intent and quiet, full of something that made heat curl in the pit of Stefanos’s stomach, Stefanos ducked his head, cheeks burning. It felt as though Sascha wasn’t just looking at him, but seeing him, all of him, every thought and feeling Stefanos had ever had hanging in suspense between them. Trying to ignore the way his heart was beating faster, Stefanos ducked his head, cheeks flaming, staring down at the

When he looked up again, the room had emptied, and Sascha was standing in front of him.

“You’ve been looking at me all weekend,” Sascha breathed unsteadily, and he stepped closer, so close Stefanos could count the miniscule flecks of jade and rainy grey in his blazing blue gaze, taste the champagne on his breath between them. The proximity was intoxicating, making his head spin.

“I have?” Stefanos stuttered, feeling his cheeks burn. His knees felt strangely weak, as though he was remaining upright through the force of Sascha’s gaze alone. He glanced over Sascha’s shoulder, but somehow they were the only ones left in the team room.

“You know you have,” Sascha said lowly, eyes darkening. He was so close that Stefanos could feel the solid heat of his body even though they weren’t quite flush, chests only brushing whenever one of them breathed in. “Maybe you should tell me why.”

“I think you know why,” Stefanos whispered, breathless, but he forced himself to look right back into Sascha’s heavy gaze, watching it darken further at his words. Trembling, Stefanos reached up and experimentally grazed the hot silken line of Sascha’s lower lip with his thumb, feeling Sascha’s abrupt exhale against the tips of his fingers as he leant into it, the colour high on his cheeks. Stefanos did it again, and this time Sascha sucked Stefanos’s index finger into his mouth, all heat.

Their gazes met, and then it was all fire and they were kissing again, only this time it wasn’t slow and tentative; it was hard, urgent, electric, each grabbing fistfuls of clothes, teeth knocking, Stefanos pressed back against the wall, Sascha’s thigh slid between his legs. Stefanos stifled a groan into the heat of Sascha’s mouth, pulling him closer and losing himself in the way they moved together as one, clumsy and desperate. Sascha pulled Stefanos’s lower lip with his teeth, pinning him more closely against the wall, one hand coming to grip Stefanos’s thigh possessively. Stifling a gasp, Stefanos clutched at the collar of Sascha’s shirt, tugging him closer and kissing him fervently, mouth open and urgent. Sascha kissed with all of the passion that often flickered quietly in his icy gaze, hard and bruising, fingers digging into Stefanos’s thigh.

Stefanos could feel the hard line of Sascha’s cock pressing against his thigh, and slid his hands down to grip Sascha’s hips so that he groaned into Stefanos’s mouth, a guttural, bitten-off sound that made Stefanos’s cock pulse harder between his legs. Lost in the wet heat of Sascha’s mouth, he shifted his hips instinctively so that his cock was pressed flush against Sascha’s, and this time he couldn’t tell whether the groan that reverberated between them came from him or Sascha as pleasure imploded through him, too much and not enough all at once, almost unbearable. They were kissing more erratically now, more just hard, uneven breathing into the heat of each other’s mouths as they ground their hips needily together. Sascha had one hand fisted in Stefanos’s curls, pulling his head back enough to suck hard, bruising kisses to his neck, the other braced on the wall behind them. His mouth was hot and wet, urgent, and Stefanos clung to him, trying to stifle the moans that kept involuntarily escaping him whenever he felt the graze of Sascha’s sharp teeth.

“God,” Sascha murmured brokenly into the skin of Stefanos’s neck, low and rough, and then he was kissing Stefanos properly again, deep and all-consuming, with all the passion he often struggled to contain on court and contained too much off of it. They were clutching each other as closely as possible but it still didn’t feel like enough as Sascha rolled his hips against Stefanos’s, the pressure of his hard cock against Stefanos’s almost too much to bear. Trembling, Stefanos slid his hands desperately under the fabric of Sascha’s shirt and onto warm planes of smooth skin, groaning at the sensation under his fingertips and feeling Sascha’s grip tighten possessively in his hair, their kiss becoming fragmented and desperate as they rutted against each other, breathing hard and fast into each other’s mouths.

A loud bang and the raucous sound of laughter made Stefanos startle, breaking the moment. Sascha pulled away slowly, almost reluctantly, one hand still fisted in Stefanos’s curls. His chest was heaving and the way he was looking at Stefanos felt almost more intimate than kissing, his pupils blown and dark, wild, his gaze full of a heat that made Stefanos’s already aching cock twitch in his pants. Behind them, the noise intensified. Jaw set, Sascha pushed himself off the wall, straightening his clothes and turning just as Dominic and Fabio barrelled into the room, promptly followed by Roger, who was unsteadily chasing them with a bottle of foaming champagne.

Stefanos stayed shakily against the wall as Sascha let himself be pulled into a headlock by Fabio and was promptly drenched in champagne. Stefanos watched, head was still spinning, his heart thudding so fast that he felt as though the wall was the only thing keeping him upright. Sascha surfaced from the dousing with his golden hair curling from the foam, his face set, serious for the first time since he’d won as he looked at Stefanos. Where moments ago it had been full of heat, disarmingly unguarded, it was suddenly resigned, as though the physical distance between them was a reminder of their reality. Stefanos felt all the electricity and euphoria drain out of him, suddenly wanting to be anywhere that he wasn’t faced with the impossibility of what he longed for.

A couple of times Roger and Fabio tried to coax Stefanos into the hubbub but he just shook his head, saying he was tired and not moving from his spot against the wall. He was still leaning where Sascha’s body had pressed him, reeling from what must have only been a few moments but had somehow felt infinite. He had felt, fleetingly, as though he had truly known Sascha – and now it was as though he was a stranger again, drifting further and further away with every passing moment that separated them further from what had just happened.

“Stef,” Dominic’s voice broke through Stefanos’s thoughts. He was leaning slightly unsteadily against the wall beside Stefanos, a half full glass of champagne in his hand. He nudged his shoulder against Stefanos’s, companionable. “Tell me something,” he said, taking a sip of his drink and staying leaning casually against Stefanos’s side. Stefanos didn’t move away; there was something reassuringly grounding about Dominic’s presence. It made it easier to forget the lingering ghost of Sascha pressed against him.

“What do you want to know?” Stefanos asked listlessly, staring down at his shoes. They were Adidas trainers, the same model as the ones Sascha had worn for his match that day.

“I’ll tell you what I want to know,” Dominic replied, nudging against Stefanos’s shoulder again and downing the rest of his champagne. “What I want to know is why you look as though you’re on the losing team rather than the winning one.”

Stefanos blinked, glancing sideways to find Dominic’s gaze on him, shrewd and piercingly blue. “I –” Stefanos broke off, shaking his head. “I don’t know how to answer that.”

“But you do know the answer,” Dominic pressed, his weight a gentle pressure against Stefanos’s side, comforting. He nudged him slightly, a sad smile playing across his features. “I won’t push you, Stef. But can I say one more thing before I go to bed?”

“Of course,” Stefanos replied, fiddling with the hair bobble around his wrist.

“You look out of place,” Dominic said, gently, “in the middle of a room full of happy people. But you’re not the only one who looks out of place right now.” The pressure at his side was gone, and Dominic clapped a consolatory hand to Stefanos’s shoulder. “Goodnight,” he said, and then he was gone, leaving Stefanos alone.

Stefanos let his gaze wander across the room, the laughing faces of Roger and Rafa, various members of the team slumped across the sofas with sleepy grins on their faces. Then his gaze found Sascha. All the glowing elation had gone and he looked quiet and pensive, solemn. He was sitting on the table with his feet propped up on one of the chairs, forearms resting on his thighs as he stared blankly into space, a slight frown creasing his brow. Decorations and empty glasses scattered the table behind him. Stefanos knew Sascha must have felt his gaze, but he didn’t acknowledge it even though his mouth was still swollen from their kiss, his lower lip red and angry from where Stefanos had pulled it between his teeth. Stefanos took one last, lingering look at it as proof of what had happened, and then politely excused himself to go up to bed, an ache settling so deep in his chest at the thought that tomorrow this would be in the past that he felt as though he would break in two.

-

Unable to sleep, Stefanos sat in the dark on his unmade bed for what like hours, knees hugged close to his chest as he stared out numbly at the same lights he’d gazed in wonder less than twenty four hours ago as his heart had raced in his chest. Now it felt heavy and useless as he sat in purgatory, soaking up the last moments where the Laver Cup wasn’t in the past, the last moments before he’d have to, somehow, move on. The thought made a lump rise in his throat, and he swallowed angrily, clenching his fists in frustration as he battled it the emotions that threatened to overwhelm. All of this, all of everything, to somehow end up worse off than where he’d started. He almost longed for the ignorance again, for the alleviation of the pain that had come with understanding. 

The knock was so quiet that at first he thought he’d imagined it – but then it sounded again moments later, slightly louder this time.

Stefanos felt his heart stop. He froze for a moment, and then he was stumbling across the room, tugging on a discarded t-shirt, thoughts scattering like motes of dust. Hands trembling, he fumbled with the handle for a moment before opening the door, letting the golden glow of the hallway spill into the quiet shadows of his room.

Sascha stood silhouetted in the doorway, wearing a worn black Adidas t-shirt and his glasses, hair rumpled as though he’d maybe tried to go to bed but had only ended up tossing and turning. His gaze was dark, intent, but his hands were twisting awkwardly together. He cleared his throat slightly, shadowed eyes searching Stefanos’s. “Can I come in?” his voice was low, accent thicker just like it had been at breakfast that morning, unguarded.

Wordlessly, Stefanos stood back to let him into the room, watching as Sascha closed the door behind him carefully before turning his attention Stefanos. He was looking at Stefanos the way he’d looked at him just after Stefanos had kissed him the first time, blazing, overwhelmed, uncertain, and Stefanos felt his stomach somersault, his heart beating impossibly faster. The space between them seemed to stretch on impossibly, the silence pressing in on them as unavoidably as the darkness.

“You couldn’t sleep?” Stefanos offered eventually into the quiet, because his heart was still racing and the building tension between them was bordering on unbearable. Sascha had half-stepped into his space, but there was still half a metre and a whole ten years of unspoken words between them. It was simultaneously too much and not enough all at once, and Stefanos couldn’t think straight. 

Slowly, Sascha shook his head. “I just –” he broke off, shifting uncomfortably for a moment. Then shook his head wordlessly, and he reached out, fingers ghosting tentatively against Stefanos’s for a moment, making Stefanos jump and his eyes flicker up to meet Sascha’s again in the muted tones of the city behind them which had paled from miniscule to invisible.

Sascha was looking at Stefanos like he’d looked at him that first rain-soaked June evening, the way that had pulled Stefanos in in the first place, looking at him as though Sascha could see him the way Stefanos felt when he was by himself, the way no one else seemed to see him. As if he already knew him, inside out. Stefanos felt his breath catch in his throat, his heart beating so fast he almost felt dizzy as he brushed his thumb slowly over Sascha’s in answer, hearing the way Sascha sucked in a breath – in relief, or anticipation, he couldn’t tell. The moments fell between them like eons, and then Sascha’s fingers were curling hesitatingly around Stefanos’s, warm and soft between their matching calluses. Stefanos looked down, at the way Sascha’s long fingers were twined with his, tight and possessive, and felt his chest flood with warmth when he realised he couldn’t tell whose belonged to who anymore.

“Can I kiss you?” Sascha whispered, his voice low but tentative.

Stefanos felt his heart fumble a beat, and he looked up only to lose himself in the quiet hunger of Sascha’s softly blazing eyes. The anticipation building in the space between them was unbearable, making Stefanos’s skin burn with heat and pulling him in more powerfully than anything he’d known, breathless before their lips had even touched. Trembling, he slid his free hand up to cup Sascha’s jaw, feeling the warm skin and gritty stubble for a moment as he slowly guided Sascha’s mouth down to meet his. For a moment, it was just breaths, and then their lips brushed, silken soft and tentative, Sascha’s curls tickling his forehead, his right hand still wrapped round Stefanos’s as though it was the only thing grounding him. The kiss was softer than the one they’d had after the match, deeper, pulling Stefanos in so completely, making his toes curl and his head spin. It was more fluid, freer than their first one, as though they’d both given themselves over to whatever this was between them. Sascha shifted subtly closer, reaching up to cup Stefanos’s jaw, his mouth hot and wet with a lingering hint of champagne.

As soft and slow as it had been, it suddenly became heated as though someone had struck a match under kindling: fire curled in Stefanos’s gut and he let out a low sound as Sascha grabbed handfuls of his t-shirt, tugging him closer until Stefanos felt his back hitting the mattress and the solid weight of Sascha on top of him, both of them breathing hard and fast. Against his thigh, Stefanos could feel Sascha’s cock, already fully hard, and groaned at the thought that Sascha was as turned on as he was by just a few moments of kissing. He pulled Sascha down closer, biting at the silken heat of Sascha’s lower lip and hearing Sascha’s answering groan, the way his hands tightened involuntarily in Stefanos’s hair. He kissed back so deeply, stubble scratching Stefanos’s cheek, noses bumping together, that Stefanos could feel his head spinning, the world groundless as he hung onto Sascha as his only point of reality. It was rough, needy, desperate, as though they were trying to make up for what had been left unfinished, for what they’d denied themselves.

Stefanos loved how quickly it could transform from soft intensity to fierce and urgent, as turbulent and complex as their relationship had been right from the start, kisses more versatile than words. It was a myriad of things all at once, some that Stefanos could identify and others he knew he wasn’t ready to, but the one constant that remained was how Sascha was able to completely absorb him in a way nothing else could. Stefanos had always been a great one for overthinking, living in his head and not reality – but here he existed purely in the silken heat of Sascha’s lips, the warm pressure of his body, the half cut-off, breathless groans Sascha was stifling against his mouth, the hot points of contact where he held onto Stefanos as though he was part of himself, just for that moment. It was freedom, that same freedom he’d first glimpsed over a decade ago, driving back from the practice courts with the windows rolled down, radio blaring out into the watercolour dusk.

Sascha pulled away, breathing hard, tugged Stefanos’s shirt over his head and then did the same with his own, tossing them carelessly to the floor. For a moment, they sat looking at each other, bare chests rising and falling rapidly, the anticipation sparking like electricity between them in the half-light. Stefanos could feel his heart thrumming and the warm weight of Sascha on his thighs, grounding him. Then slowly, Sascha reached out and tucked a strand of Stefanos’s hair behind his ear, the gesture disarmingly tender. Stefanos could feel Sascha’s hand trembling as though he were as shaken by this as Stefanos was, and on impulse reached out, taking Sascha’s wrist and pressing a soft kiss to the pulse point in his wrist where he could feel it fluttering wildly. Something passed across Sascha’s gaze and so Stefanos did it again, mouthing over the vulnerable skin again and tasting salt and _Sascha_, wanting to kiss as much of Sascha’s smooth, milky skin as possible. He moved his mouth, dipping his head to reverently kiss the soft skin of Sascha’s forearm, the curve of his elbow, the hard muscle of his bicep, and when he looked back up at Sascha it was just a split second of heat before they were kissing again, messy and needy.

Sascha let out a low groan into Stefanos’s mouth, his hands coming up to grip Stefanos’s thighs and pulling him in close so that their cocks brushed together through the thin fabric of their boxers. Arousal shot through Stefanos, almost unbearable, and he arched up into Sascha’s grasp, tugging at Sascha’s lower lip with his teeth and feeling Sascha’s grip tighten, his breath come faster. He leant his forehead against Stefanos’s as they moved together, Stefanos’s hands tangled in his hair and his mouth open as he groaned helplessly into Sascha’s mouth. The feeling of Sascha’s cock against his was overwhelming, his own so hard he could feel himself leaking, the head poking obscenely out of the top of his boxers as they rocked together. Soon they were both breathing too hard to kiss, everywhere they touched felt electric, too much hot skin, and Stefanos already felt dangerously close.

“Wait –” Stefanos breathed out against Sascha’s mouth, but he pulled him even closer as he spoke, hands encircling hard planes of Sascha’s back, feeling enthralled by the contradicting softness and hard muscle.

Sascha’s eyes were impossibly dark, his hair mussed and the colour standing out high on his cheeks as he looked at Stefanos, breathing hard. Something indecipherable flickered across his face, and Stefanos fleetingly wondered if he looked as wrecked as Sascha did. Cupping Stefanos’s jaw tenderly, Sascha pressed his lips to Stefanos’s collarbone, a momentary flutter of pressure. When Stefanos let out a shaky exhale at the heat of Sascha’s mouth, Sascha trailed it lower, lingering for a moment to lick down the line of his sternum before mouthing at the skin just above Stefanos’s nipple. Then he sucked Stefanos’s nipple into his mouth, nose pressed against Stefanos’s chest, hot breath burning against his skin, and Stefanos arched his back, feeling his face contort in pleasure.

“Sascha,” he breathed, threading his fingers through Sascha’s hair and feeling Sascha’s hot exhale of breath against his nipple in response, hands tightening against Stefanos’s back so that Stefanos was sure there would be little crescent moons indented there like the ones he’d made on his own palms during Sascha’s match. It suddenly seemed like a lifetime ago. Stefanos groaned helplessly as Sascha turned his attention to the other nipple, mouth tracing tantalising patterns down Stefanos’s torso as though he was mapping it out so that he’d remember it, as though he wanted to come back to it. The thought made Stefanos’s heart sear in his chest. You didn’t make maps of places you didn’t want to return to.

“Is this okay?” Sascha murmured against the line of Stefanos’s boxers, and Stefanos could feel the warm brush of his breath, the graze of stubble. His heart was beating so fast he could hear the blood thrumming in his ears. He nodded fervently, stifling another groan as Sascha’s gaze flashed up to meet his, dark and blazing. His golden hair was dishevelled where Stefanos’s hands had been tugging it moments before, a crown of soft flames, his skin glowing as though he’d just won the tournament again, high on adrenaline and elation. Biting gently at the curve of Stefanos’s hip, Sascha slid his fingers expertly under the elastic of Stefanos’s boxers, fleeting points of callused heat, before tugging them down so that Stefanos’s cock curved up against his stomach, full and heavy, aching.

The look that crossed Sascha’s face was one Stefanos knew would stay with him longer than the memory of their first meeting. It was full of complexity, a kind of primal fire and possessiveness, but also vulnerability, as though Sascha was feeling as overcome as Stefanos was. Without breaking eye contact, Sascha ducked his head and nosed against the line of Stefanos’s hip, mouth drawing a hot, wet trail downwards. The first brush of his lips against Stefanos’s straining cock was so simultaneously too much and not enough, causing Stefanos to moan helplessly, fist clutching at the sheets as his cock jerked helplessly against his stomach, sparks of pleasure shooting up his spine.

When Sascha took him fully in his mouth, Stefanos cried out, and felt Sascha moan around his cock in response, his fingers digging into Stefanos’s thighs as he hollowed his cheeks, sucking intently. Stefanos could see the way Sascha’s hips were rucking against the mattress, and that more than anything else almost tipped him over the edge, the idea that Sascha was as overwhelmed as he was, that it turned him on to have Stefanos’s cock in his mouth. They had exchanged barely a handful of conversations in their lives, but Stefanos felt in that moment, inexplicably, that he somehow knew Sascha with the same intimacy he knew himself. He reached out, tangling his hands in Sascha’s honeyed hair and feeling Sascha’s responding groan reverberate around his cock. Stefanos was already embarrassingly close, the intensity curling deep in the pit of stomach and making his cock throb in the hot wetness of Sascha’s mouth.

“Wait, I –” Stefanos gasped, fingers tightening in Sascha’s hair, stars beginning to explode around the edge of his vision. Sascha pulled off with an obscene wet sound, lips swollen and red, eyes dark with intensity. He dipped his head to lick a pearl of precum that had gathered at the head of Stefanos’s cock, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through Stefanos’s groin, before sitting back on his haunches, hair dishevelled, breathing hard. “I –” Stefanos tried breathlessly, “I’m too close.”

“What do you want?” Sascha asked, his voice low and wrecked, eyes not leaving Stefanos’s. His cock was leaking precum too, curving swollen and heavy up to his toned stomach, untouched. Stefanos almost groaned just from the sight of it.

“I don’t know,” Stefanos said, feeling suddenly almost shy under the heat of Sascha’s gaze, “You.”

Sascha’s gaze darkened. “You have me.”

Stefanos reached out, cupping Sascha’s jaw half in wonderment. He could feel the same, sandy scratch of stubble that he knew had grazed his thighs, still stinging softly between his legs. Even with his chest still heaving and his eyes dark with lust, Sascha looked strangely vulnerable in that moment, cheeks pink, completely unguarded. Something flickered across his face, and he pulled Stefanos in so that they were kissing again, slowly this time, stars spinning, one hand in Stefanos’s hair, heads tilted so that their noses bumped gently as they moved. Stefanos could taste himself on Sascha’s tongue, feel the frantic beat of Sascha’s heart where their bare chests were pressed together, moist with perspiration. It was utterly consuming, as vital as air, and yet Stefanos still felt breathless as Sascha slid his hands up into Stefanos’s hair, long fingers tangling in his curls.

Then as soft as it had been, it suddenly turned hard and urgent again, Sascha’s teeth grazing his lower lip as Stefanos instinctively ground his hips forward, bringing their hard cocks into contact and making them both groan helplessly, clutching at each other more tightly. Sascha was all hot, soft skin and hard muscle, long and lithe as they moved together uncontrollably amidst the mess of sheets Stefanos had slept alone in thinking hopelessly of this. Sascha’s milky chest was glowing with exertion, the flush on his cheeks spreading down his neck. He was beautiful, Stefanos thought dazedly. Lithe, supple limbs and endless skin, his cock heavy and swollen against his stomach, already dripping precum. His gold necklaces glittered at his chest, glimmers of what mattered to him that Stefanos had often looked at poking out of the collar of his shirts. It was somehow strange to see them on bare skin, to tug at them with his teeth and feel Sascha’s answering groan. Or maybe what was strange was that it didn’t feel strange at all, as though Stefanos had somehow always known somewhere that this was the way it was going to end up.

He closed his eyes against it all, suddenly overwhelmed. He had wanted Sascha to look at him all weekend, and now Sascha’s gaze was fixed intently on him, dark and primal and touchingly tender all at once. All he could do was ride the wave, dreading the moment it stilled and he was left standing on the shore again. Envisaging forgetting their two kisses had been impossible enough, contemplating leaving this behind felt incomprehensible. Stefanos tightened his grip, one hand around the flexed muscles of Sascha’s bicep, the other digging into the lithe planes of his back so he could feel the movement of muscle beneath the skin as Sascha thrust against him, the sensation of their cocks sliding together threatening to overwhelm. Emotion rose in Stefanos’s chest as powerfully as arousal as he gazed up at Sascha and found his eyes already on Stefanos, quiet and intent, overcome, the colour of the sky before a storm.

“I could come from this,” Sascha breathed, stilling and resting his forehead against Stefanos’s, his voice wrecked. His hand was gripping Stefanos’s thigh so hard it felt as though it would bruise, the hot, hard length of his cock still pressed against Stefanos’s. He moved slightly and they both let out groans at the feel of their cocks sliding together, both wet with precum.

“Can I –” Stefanos was moving instinctively against Sascha, unable to keep still. “Can I touch you?”

Sascha’s eyes went dark, and Stefanos _felt_ the twitch of Sascha’s cock against his. Arousal pulled deep at his gut, so intense he felt dizzy as he gazed up at Sascha, the quiet turmoil of his gaze. Sascha groaned quietly, dipping his head to brush their mouths together.

“Yes,” Sascha breathed out, his forehead resting against Stefanos’s again, breath coming hard and fast against Stefanos’s lips, his curls brushing Stefanos’s forehead, slightly damp the way they’d been after he’d been doused in champagne. Stefanos thought of how he’d looked at them then and how he could never in that moment have imagined the one they were in now. “God,” he nudged his nose against Stefanos’s, pressed their lips together for a moment, all intensity, “Yes.”

“I – I have never,” Stefanos confessed, struggling to breathe evenly at the feeling of their cocks still brushing against each other. He drew a line down Sascha’s left arm, spiralling patterns on the sensitive inside of the wrist where he could feel Sascha’s pulse going crazy. “But I want to.” His gaze flickered up to Sascha who was watching him through half-lidded eyes, bruised mouth parted slightly, cheeks flushed. “Will you tell me how?”

Wordlessly, Sascha nodded, looking as overwhelmed as Stefanos felt. He reached out, lacing his fingers between Stefanos’s and guiding them downwards, slow, gentle. Stefanos could feel the rough bumps of calluses from where he held his racquet, a fleeting reminder of reality, and how incomprehensible far away they were from it.

“It’s just like touching yourself,” Sascha murmured, his voice wrecked as Stefanos sucked soft, bruising kisses down his torso. “Just think about what feels good for you. Whatever you do will feel good.” He let out a sharp exhale as Stefanos’s fingers curled tentatively round his cock. Stefanos had never touched anyone besides himself, and he was surprised at how similar and different it was all at once, how _right_ it felt. Sascha was heavy in his palm, hot and velvety, slightly longer than Stefanos and slick with precum. He could feel him throbbing in Stefanos’s grasp, and Stefanos felt pleasure shoot through him to the tips of his fingers at the feel of Sascha in his hand as he began experimentally pumping up and down, rubbing his thumb slightly over the head on the upstroke and hearing the hitch in Sascha’s breath. Once he felt as though he’d established a steady rhythm and managed to breathe through the arousal that burned through him at the feeling of Sascha in his hand, Stefanos looked up. The sight of Sascha leaning back on his elbows on the bed, head tilted back to show the line of his throat, made his heart fumble a beat.

From this angle, Sascha was all gold; supple limbs tinted gold by the muted glow of the city lights they’d both forgotten, hair a tousled halo that softened the sharp lines of his cheekbones. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes hooded and dark, mouth slack as he watched Stefanos press exploratory kisses along the line of his hip. He could feel the way Sascha’s cock pulsed in his hand every time Stefanos sucked soft, reverential kisses to Sascha’s skin, its hard, wet tip rubbing against Stefanos’s chest as he moved slowly lower. When Stefanos licked purposefully up the length of Sascha’s cock, the wrecked noise Sascha let out flooded Stefanos’s body with arousal, his own cock leaking. Lost in the everything between them, Stefanos experimentally sucked the head of Sascha’s cock into his mouth, velvety soft and so hot, tasting the sharpness of precum and the salt of skin. Under him, Sascha jerked in response, his hands suddenly in Stefanos’s curls.

Stefanos looked up, and almost had to pull off because the sight of Sascha was overwhelming: his cheeks were flushed and his chest was heaving, glittering with a sheen of sweat, his face contorted in pleasure, muscles in his forearms flexed from where he was tugging Stefanos’s hair. His mouth was slack, but his eyes were blazing with the same fire Stefanos had seen directed at him across the net more than once. Stefanos felt one hand loosen in his curls, and Sascha was tracing the stretch of Stefanos’s lips around his cock with his index finger, expression one of half wonderment. His eyes went black when Stefanos sucked his finger into his mouth along with his cock, the other hand tightening in Stefanos’s hair.

“Stefanos,” It was the first time Sascha had said his name all weekend, rough and broken, vulnerable. “_God_.” His mouth was slack with pleasure, thighs trembling beneath Stefanos’s grip.

Unable to take his gaze from the wonderment in Sascha’s eyes, Stefanos hollowed his cheeks and sunk down until he could feel the hot, wet head of Sascha’s cock pulsing in his throat and his nose was pressed to Sascha’s abdomen that was rising and falling rapidly, concave and then conflux, over and over and faster and faster, until he was gasping out Stefanos’s name, his gaze dark and wild. His grip was so tight in Stefanos’s hair that Stefanos could feel his scalp tingling as he sucked harder and felt Sascha lose it on a broken, rough groan that sent thrills of arousal through Stefanos as warm wetness filled his mouth, bittersweet and compulsive. Stefanos swallowed, keeping his mouth around Sascha’s cock until he was twitching with aftershocks, hands slack in Stefanos’s hair.

Pulling Stefanos up, Sascha cupped his face and kissed him slowly, tenderly, as though he was reluctant to let go. Between them, his hand found Stefanos’s cock and Stefanos jerked against him at the sudden stimulation, achingly hard. He’d been on the edge for what felt like since they’d started kissing, gasping for breath just at the brush of Sascha’s long fingers. 

“Sascha,” Stefanos groaned helplessly into Sascha’s mouth, breath hitching in his throat as Sascha’s dextrous fingers pumped up and down, the pressure perfect, overwhelming. He didn’t take his mouth away, just kept kissing Stefanos, slow and deep, so intense Stefanos’s head was spinning and he could feel it all the way down to his toes, a deep pull curling in the pit of his stomach. He clung to Sascha, feeling the warm planes of muscle in his back, his gold chains digging into Stefanos’s sternum, the rapid beat of Sascha’s heart where their chest were pressed together. It felt somehow, fleetingly, as though they’d known each other forever.

Stefanos was breathing too fast to kiss now, his head arched back as Sascha kissed bruising kisses down his neck, his hand moving sinfully between Stefanos’s legs. Sascha grazed Stefanos’s clavicle with his teeth, expression flushed and intimate with his lips still swollen from where they’d been around Stefanos’s cock earlier, bruises Stefanos could barely remember making beginning to blossom on his neck. There was something intimate, almost reverential about the way he mouthed his way across Stefanos’s chest, so intently focused on him it was as though nothing else existed. Around a twist of his thumb, he looked up into Stefanos’s gaze, ice blue on fire, and Stefanos felt himself come apart in Sascha’s arms, warmth spurting between them and the world exploding into stars, ecstasy unlike any he’d ever known.

Sascha didn’t stop holding him, and when Stefanos touched back down to earth they were both lying flat on their backs on the same bed Stefanos had spent hours thinking about Sascha in. It took Stefanos a few moments to realise that Sascha’s hand was curled around his, entwined on top of Stefanos’s sweat-slicked chest. For several long moments, the soft darkness around them was just filled with unsteady breathing, and then the cool night air found its way between them, the silence becoming heavy with it. Stefanos felt uncertainty bleed in with it even though Sascha’s hand was still linked with his, fear suddenly gripping him – but then Sascha rolled over and draped himself over Stefanos, all familiar warmth and long limbs.

“I didn’t even realise I wanted this,” Sascha said quietly into the skin of Stefanos’s neck, his lips silken and hot against the join between Stefanos’s neck and shoulders, sending shivers down his spine. His hand was still curled against Stefanos’s chest, resting just over the space above his heart as it slowed, and Stefanos felt grateful for the way they were still linked. It made what had happened indisputably real; without it, he felt as though he could have drifted away into ether. “But you kept looking at me,” Sascha mumbled indistinctly, “Like you knew I did.”

“I didn’t know,” Stefanos whispered, burying his face in Sascha’s hair. His heart was beating faster than it had been moments before. Words were less instinctive than touches and he was afraid of saying the wrong thing, of shattering this fragile thing between them “I think I just hoped.”

“How long did you hope?” Sascha asked softly. One long leg was still hooked over Stefanos’s, tangling them together. Outside, the muted lights of the city glimmered like stars.

Stefanos paused, tracing the line of Sascha’s golden chains, just because he could. The soft little sigh of contentment Sascha let out at his touch made heat of an entirely different type blossom in his chest, deeper and quieter, disarmingly powerful. “A while,” he said, at last.

Sascha bit down gently on Stefanos’s collar bone, making Stefanos shiver. He pressed his lips lightly to the bruise, silken and tender. “The way you look at me, Stefanos.”

“How do I look at you?” Stefanos murmured, fingers tangling in Sascha’s rumpled hair.

Sascha looked up at him, and Stefanos felt his heart contract. Sascha was glowing, as beautiful and indestructible as he had been in the moment he’d won the tournament, all gold and softly smouldering fire. “The way you’re looking at me now,” Sascha whispered, quietly, as though he was almost humbled. He reached up and traced Stefanos’s cheek as though half afraid, half in wonder. “The way no one’s ever looked at me.” He ducked his head, swallowed, as though he was afraid he’d given himself away. Stefanos wanted to reassure him, tell him it was too late, that they’d both given too much of themselves away to ever go back. The thought was somehow both terrifying and reassuring in its truth. “I didn’t expect it. I didn’t know what to do with it.”

Stefanos felt emotion rise in his chest, uncontainable at the frank sincerity of Sascha’s words. His fingers tightened in Sascha’s hair and he pulled Sascha up to kiss him, soft and slow. Sascha slid his hands up to cup Stefanos’s cheeks and deepened it, until they were both breathless again, pressed restlessly against each other, impatient. Almost reluctantly, he pulled back and flopped back down beside Stefanos, linking their hands together with slightly more certainty this time.

“Dominic knew,” Sascha groaned, staring up at the ceiling. “He always knows what’s going on in my brain before I do. He’s been rolling his eyes at me all weekend.”

“He told me where to find you, last night,” Stefanos admitted, still feeling dazed.

“Let’s not tell him yet,” Sascha said, eyes finding Stefanos’s. A wry smile pulled at the corner of his lips, and he shook his head slightly, as though in disbelief. His hair was ruffled and burnished gold on the pillow, mingling with Stefanos’s. “I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of having been right.”

“Yet?” Stefanos felt his heart swell in his chest. “You mean –” he swallowed, closing his eyes, not daring to hope. His heart soared in his chest, “This isn’t just for tonight?”

He opened his eyes to find Sascha looking at him, suddenly wary and inscrutable again. His cheeks were still flushed but his eyes were suddenly clouded, guarded and wary. His hand was still around Stefanos’s, but he tensed as though he was no longer sure of its right to be there. “Do you want it to be?” he asked, quietly. His eyes were unreadable, but Stefanos could sense what it cost Sascha to make them so, could feel the tension radiating off him.

Stefanos turned his head on the pillow to look properly at Sascha, knowing in that moment he never wanted to see Sascha anything but as vulnerable and beautiful he was, entwined with Stefanos in the muted glow of the city they’d forgotten. He couldn’t bear the uncertain, inscrutable mask that had suddenly cast a shadow over it, and so he closed his eyes so he didn’t have to look at the jarring guardedness of Sascha’s expression, leant forwards to kiss him slowly, lingeringly. “I want it to be for as long as you do,” Stefanos murmured against his mouth, and Sascha let out a quiet sound, pulled him closer so that they were crushed against each other and Stefanos could no longer tell whose heartbeat belonged to who, only that they were both racing, lost in the rhythm of the other.

Outside, the city’s stars no longer existed. Their lights were meaningless.

Dawn was starting to break.


End file.
